


Watson No More

by buckybahrns (hop_in_my_moricarty)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Imagined Scenes, M/M, PTSD flashbacks, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hop_in_my_moricarty/pseuds/buckybahrns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was only expecting a short nap in the flat, grabbing an hour or two tops on a danger night. He woke up chained to a wall in a basement.</p><p>--------</p><p>TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic violence, rape, Stockholm Syndrome, written war flashbacks (?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: My Moran is Alexander Skarsgård of True Blood fame because I look at him and see Sebby.

Three days.

That's how long he'd been here. He didn't know where here was, or how he'd gotten here, just that the little light that showed through the tiniest chink in the bricks had shone and faded three times.

Doctor John Hamish Watson, former medic of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was no longer in his comfortable, if cramped, 221-B Baker Street flat shared with friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes. He was now sitting in a dark, dank room, most likely a basement from what he could see when the sun was up. There was a cold stone floor, and a colder brick wall. One arm was shackled to it with a heavy manacle that rubbed his wrist raw when he tried to pull it off. There was a short chain attached to it, allowing him to stand up and take exactly two and a half paces forward and to the side. He couldn't see any stairs, a door, nothing to indicate how he got here. All he knew was that, without fail, when he was asleep somebody would bring him a bottle of water and some bread, just enough to keep him alive one day more. John tried rationing his food and water once, but then he fell asleep, and the plate and bottle were both gone when he awoke, and that day he went hungry and without water.

John tried to remember how he'd gotten from the flat to the basement. It was fuzzy. He could recall that Sherlock was having a danger night. John tried his very best to make sure that he remained on the sofa, curled up under a heavy blanket, his thin dressing gown already soaked through with cold sweats and hot flashes. John remained seated in his armchair, laptop resting on his thighs, sipping tea from a heavy mug he'd sterlizied beyond what he thought necessary. One could never be too careful, living with Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered dozing off around half past midnight, his head nodding until it rested on the broad chest. And then he woke up shackled to a brick wall, the darkness of the basement surrounding him, suffocating him, triggering flashbacks to the two weeks spent as a POW in Afghanistan. _The utter blackness of the hideout, the blistering heat, days without water, his mouth feeling like it was full of sand._ He started dry heaving, having only eaten some takeaway rice for dinner and a biscuit with his tea. He broke out in a sweat, his ribs rising and falling quickly, his jumper suddenly too hot, too heavy, too restricting. He curled in on himself, wrapping his left arm around to his right side, trying to ignore the sudden burning he felt in his shoulder, the bullet wound now aching and his bad leg throbbing with pain as he attempted to calm down. There were tears streaming down his face, pooling in the hollow where his throat met his chest, and dripping back down his collarbone as he laid down on his side. John was panicking.

He couldn't take in air, his lungs felt like they were being crushed and constricted, his mind racing past the memories of the torture he suffered at the hands of the enemy, trying to get information from him. A few of his men had been captured as well, and every few days one would be brought in, a harsh light shined on the two of them as well as a guard, armed with a large gun. The guard would scream at John, threaten the life of the soldier and the medic, and John would tell them again and again that he didn't know, please just let them go, keep him, just let his men  _go_. The day would end with John having screamed himself hoarse, protesting the idea that he had information, he was just a medic. The chief medic, the captain of his medical team, not of a platoon. He knew his day was over when the guard would cock his gun, throw the man into a corner, usually the one closest to John, and shoot. The blood would spatter up onto John's face, his hair, the short blond strands turned red, then a rust color as it would dry. The only days when he wasn't beaten were the days that he lost another man. They left the body in the room with him for a day, then pulled it out by an arm or leg (if was still attached), or by the collar of his shirt, the careless treatment of the body leaving a long stripe of red on the floor leading to the one door. And John was left in the darkness again, the bright fluorescents shut off from the outside, the sudden change in light leaving John feeling like he had been blinded.

Eventually John had calmed down, his screams settled down to hoarse whimpers, still crying softly and laying on the floor. He felt ashamed of what he had done, the flashbacks and the resulting reaction always left him feeling like a little boy again, crying for his mum when she left him and Harry with their nan for a weekend alone with their dad. And this had concluded his first day in the cellar. 

* * *

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, suddenly falling off the sofa, his lean body slamming onto the floor, his head cracking against the wood. "Shit!" His long hands flew up, grappling for the coffee table that was usually right in front of the sofa, stacks of books and old papers, discarded and forgotten mugs of tea, the remnants now spoiling. For all her protestations otherwise, Mrs. Hudson did usually pop up every three days or so to make sure the boys' flat was in order, occasionally taking their laundry to wash or cleaning the dishes. Sherlock supposed that she wasn't their housekeeper, but she was like a mother to him. Well, what he'd dreamed his mother would suddenly be like, back when he was young. Now he was grown, his mum was as good as dead, and Mrs. Hudson spoiled him and John, even though she didn't mean to. Sherlock gave up on trying to find purchase on the coffee table, it had been shifted approximately fourteen point three two centimeters away from the sofa, and he just pushed himself up on his elbows, a heavy blanket tangled around his legs  _(wool, no, fleece microfiber, pilling on the pale underside. Musty, must have been pulled from a closet, sweat- mine, danger night)_  and he kicked it off quickly. Sherlock's head snapped up, looking around the immaculate flat. Mrs. Hudson must have been up, but she'd missed John's mug on the small table next to his armchair, his laptop set carefully on it, the lid closed securely. He narrowed his eyes, John never closed the lid all the way, and his mug's handle was pointed the wrong way. He stood up quickly, eyes scanning the room rapidly, and he took three long strides to be able to kneel next to the chair.

He noticed the faint marks of a set of footprints on the carpet  _(men's size 11, tread indicates a boot. Combat, most likely. Heavy shoes, but light marks. Light on his feet, would have been nearly silent.)_  Sherlock stood up, stalking over to the other side of the chair, pulling his magnifying glass from the pocket of his dressing gown, peering closely at the fibers of the chair. He noticed some hairs,  _(soft, fairly short, tan and black. Cat? No, dog ( _Canis lupus familiaris)_. Breed, breed, breed, possible breeeed. Bloodhound, hunting dog. Country of origin: debated; Belguim, France, England, or Scotland.) _ and rushed to the bathroom to grab John's tweezers, only noticing in passing that John had left his toothbrush on the counter, the toothpaste open, and that he neglected to put on aftershave the day before. He swiped a clean plastic Ziploc bag from the kitchen, only pausing to ensure it was dry and fresh, so as not to contaminate the evidence. On second thought, he grabbed a few more in case he found more evidence. After three minutes of careful scanning, he was glad he brought them, as he closed the last bag with a flourish, grinning to the skull on the mantle. He dropped the bags on the table, and hurried to his room to pull on some trousers and a black button-down, snagging his blue scarf off the set of hooks on his door, a scarf in every color hanging on one. He turned and twisted gracefully as he dressed, snatching up socks and shoes before pulling his wallet and phone out of the safe John kept them in during danger nights. He pushed them into one pocket, stuffing the evidence into the other, pulling on his gloves and coat as he ran down the stairs, leaving the door wide open, yelling to Mrs. Hudson and the rest of the tennants, "Off to the Yard! Close the door will you, Mrs. Hudson?" She smiled down at her bowl in her kitchen and sang after him, "Not your housekeeper, love!" to which Sherlock called a dry "Yes you are, don't deny it," before the door slammed shut behind him.

Sherlock hailed a cab, getting the excited, nervous, and proud feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that he always got when he first took on an interesting case. "Healthy high" John called it, "psychosis" Anderson called it. He quickly told the cabbie his destination, his low baritone rumbling through the car, thick with excitement. The cabbie's face contorted in a look of confusion, and he turned so that his arm was resting on top of the back of his seat, his neck craning around to look at his fare.

"Wot's dat agin?" he asked, music turned down low playing, a song Sherlock recognized as the overture of  _La gazza ladra_ , one of his favorite pieces to listen to when played properly.

"New Scotland Yard," Sherlock drawled, speaking slowly and louder, trying to keep from bouncing in his seat from excitement. He was too excited to deduce anything about the cabbie, not that he wanted to. The driver slowly pulled into the late morning London traffic, and Sherlock stared blankly out the window, picking apart the city in his mind. The clouds were thin today, and he was glad. The weak sunlight gave him just enough light to see into the dark alleys a little further, to be able to discover more about the place he had lived for most of his adult life.

The ride to the Yard seemed to take longer than usual, and he threw some notes at the cabbie before jumping out of the cab, dashing to the door, and hurriedly making his way up to Lestrade's level and bursting into the office, disregarding anyone and anything not Lestrade.

"Lestrade, John is missing. Ah, ah, not to fear, I investigated and I found these," he threw the bags onto the desk, and the slid against each other, finally coming to rest in a neat layout. "I picked them up with John's tweezers, so there may be traces of his DNA on them, but it's mostly the perpetrator's." Sherlock picked up a bag of a little bit of evidence, explaining where he found it, elaborating on the item, and repeating the action for all six bags.

* * *

John glanced up groggily at the face hovering above him. His vision was bleary, and the face was too close, out of focus, and fuzzy. He blinked slowly, shaking his head, trying to clear it of the mental fog. He blinked once more, head hanging down, facing his lap, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter before opening them with a snap. His head shot up and he was staring right into the cold, dark eyes of one James Moriarty.

Jim grinned as John snarled and lunged, restricted by the cuffs he was now wearing, as well as the fact that he was bound in a chair. John noticed now that he had been stripped down to his pants.  _Monday_ , John growled mentally,  _and now it's what? Wednesday? Thursday? Where's Sherlock? Lestrade? Mycroft? Hell, I'd even take Anderson right now if I could._  Jim had done nothing but smile at John, and he made a mental note that it never reached his eyes. He was absorbing a fraction of Sherlock's skills, but Moriarty was just too hard to read.

"Goooooooood morning, Johnny boy!" Jim crowed, baring his teeth in the impression of a wide grin. "Let's behave, shall we? Daddy's had a long night and his patience is running thin. Now, why don't you say hello to Uncle Sebby?" Jim motioned to somebody behind John, and he heard light footsteps approaching. A large man, taller than Sherlock, circled around John's chair. His hair was light blond and cropped short. He wore a simple black T-shirt and a pair of dark denims. His delicate footsteps didn't correspond with the heavy looking combat boots he wore. John caught a glimpse at his arms, long pale scars covering the forearms and wrists. He towered over John in his sitting position, and absolutely dwarfed Moriarty as he crossed his arms and took his place beside him silently. John stared up at the man, eyes blank and cold. Jim snapped at the man, and he stalked over and slapped John with his open palm.

John didn't cry out, or even flinch. His head snapped to the right, neck popping from sitffness and he just clenched his jaw. Jim narrowed his eyes at the doctor, holding up a halting hand to his partner as he prepared to hit John again.

"No, Sebby. That's enough of that," Jim murmured. "We don't want our precious doctor to get broken now, do we?" He took his arms from behind his back, pulled on the cuffs of his jacket and shirt, the suit pristine and not seeming to fit in with the dirty room, walls stained brown with dried blood and water damage.

"Sebby" backed away from John, shoving his hands into his pockets, grunting his acknowledgement. Jim smiled at John again, that empty smile that looked painful. "This is my dear friend, Sebastian Moran. He's an American, Johnny. Daddy has friends  _aaaall_ over the world, and none of them would ever hurt him. No need to be scared, Johnny boy, Daddy is as safe as can be and he'll never," Jim stepped closer, "ever," he rasied a hand to John, "leave you." He stroked John's cheek tenderly, almost lovingly, before rearing back for a harsh slap to John's other cheek. "I told you to greet your Uncle Sebby, John. Daddy's tired of you being rude to your family," he growled, voice full of danger. "You haven't even said hello to me. Do you know how that makes me feel?" Jim asked, simpering voice close to John's ear now, and he shied away from it slightly. Jim pulled John back to where he had been by his wounded shoulder, making John cry out in real pain as the nails dug into the sensitive scar.

John had been planning on spitting out a snarky reply, but all thoughts of that vanished with the flash of white-hot pain that coursed through his body, flowing from his shoulder into his fingertips and all the way down to his stomach. He sucked in a shuddering breath, Jim releasing his shoulder and shoving John away.

"Sebby, why don't you teach Johnny a little lesson in respect while I'm gone?" Jim called, back turned to the two blonds as he pulled open the single door with a special kind of grace usually reserved for dancers and gymnasts. He poked his head around the door and shot John a reptilian grin, dark red lips pulled back harshly over bright white teeth.

John rolled his shoulders as much he could, trying to ease the lingering pain and make the pain sure to come a little easier. He sat up straighter in his chair, trying to look proud and brave, confident that Sherlock would find him. So, when Sebastian stepped behind John, undid the length of rope around his chest and unlocked the cuffs, he was perplexed. "Wha-" John started, cut off by a rough punch to his jaw. He could hear and feel it cracking, blood dripping from his mouth. Sebastian quickly maneuvered John's hands in front of him, locking the cuffs tightly around his wrists once more, grabbing the linked chains in one hand and yanking John out of the chair. The tall, silent American threw John away, shoving between his shoulder blades to force him down onto the floor, leaving John with his face pressed onto the floor, his knees bent and his rear in the air. John's eyes snapped open as he heard a button unsnapping and a fly being unzipped. He quickly tried to get back up, bringing his hands together underneath him, about to push himself up. Sebastian dropped his denims, the fabric rustling as they hit the floor. He roughly pushed John's front back down, yanking at the white elastic of John's pants, puling them down to his knees. John was crying out, squirming, trying to get away.

"No, please! Stop! Please!" John screamed, his voice breaking as he tried to plead with Moran. He ignored the cries of the doctor, instead choosing to focus on wrapping an arm around John's wasit, dragging him closer on the cement floor. John hissed as his knees were scraped, blood starting to puddle around his knees. Moran squared himself with John, forcing his way in as John cried out again, louder, his voice forcing its way past the lump in his throat. Tears were now streaming freely down his cheeks, the warm trails cooling in the air for only a moment before more replaced them. He could feel the muscle tearing, Moran groaning quietly as he settled himself inside John. John knew that it would be worse if he was tense and so he tried to relax, he really did. He could feel blood running down the back of his leg and he sniffled quietly, his arms folded under his face to keep it from behing scraped along the concrete as Moran roughly thrusted against John, leaning over to bite at John's neck and back, drawing blood. John hissed at each bite, trying to arch away from them, only for Moran to keep leaning and bite down harder. Sebastian started panting, his thrusts growing erratic. He pushed deep into John once more, and let loose a low moan, and John could feel Moran empty himself into John. John felt used, dirty, and disgusted with himself. He should have fought back when he had the chance, should have resisted more, should have, should have, should have. Moran grabbed John, roughly pulling the red pants up around John's thighs, and then sat him back in the chair, only pausing do pull up his denims and redo the button and fly. He unlocked the cuffs, but this time John didn't even think about them. He was crying, not noticing the pain on his back or neck, in his shoulders and they were shoved into place, or even the pain in his arse. He couldn't pick apart the individual strands of pain that wove together to make a 1.69 metre ex-army doctor turned blogger.

Sebastian left John with a few final blows, the smaller man not even bothering to hide his tears or fear now. He was in pain, and Moran loved it. He knew that Jim would love it too, probably playing the footage captured on several cameras around the room over and over, eyes bright with excitement, a slow grin creeping across his face. Moran rolled his right shoulder, stiff from holding John for so long, and then he shut the door swiftly behind him, the noise of the lock and heavy door echoing slightly in the room where John sat.

John sobbed again, his body aching, a mixture of his blood and Moran's semen soaking the seat of his pants, his body shaking as he took in short breaths, the exhales hurting his ribs. He wondered when, and if, he would be given water or food, and he tried to remember when he had last had water. There were no chinks in the bricks in this room, just bright white fluorescents hurting John's eyes with too much light. He wouldn't be able to tell how many hours or days he'd be in here, no way to know if the day was cloudy or clear. He felt the same sense of disconnect from the world as he'd felt in the POW bunker during his service, not knowing if Sherlock had even noticed he'd gone missing. If they were lucky, it would only take Sherlock a day or so to get over danger nights. If they weren't, well, the longest John had to take off from work was a week to ensure Sherlock didn't run away or get hurt doing stupid experiments.

John was never a very religious man, but now he prayed to any deities he'd heard of, and the rest that he hadn't that Sherlock would barge in here, Lestrade hot on his heels, having arrested Moran and Moriarty and anybody else who was working here. He pictured Sherlock kicking in the door, and John looking up at him, before Sherlock picked the lock on John's cuffs and took him tenderly into his long arms, John curling into the lean, muscular chest as he was carried bridal style to the back of an ambulance, an orange shock blanket tucked neatly around him, Sherlock's coat under it, and Sherlock's arms themselves over it all, John sitting cradled on his lap. Sherlock would stroke his hair, murmur apologies about not finding him sooner and admitting his feelings for John, _("John, oh, my John. I'm so, so sorry. A thousand apologies, my darling. Oh, my sweet. Will you ever forgive me for taking so long? I love you John Hamish Watson, I truly do.")_. John would sigh tiredly and nod a little before nestling his head between Sherlock's shoulder and warm neck, peppering it with many tiny kisses before they were sent off to Baker Street where Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock would both fret and mother over him, John laid up in bed to regather his strength before Lestrade inevitably interrogated John, asking prodding questions in his calm, low voice, nearly a whisper. John would mumble his answer from under the duvet, Sherlock sitting next to John and holding his hand, repeating the answers John gave too quietly to hear a little louder, and Lestrade would scribble them down in a notebook. _  
_

These images calmed John enough to stop crying for now, his sobs reduced to the occasional rattling breath and a sniffle. He nursed the visions in his head, replaying the romantic scenes he created between him and Sherlock after the daring rescue. Tender kisses, gentle caresses, loving smiles and glances as Sherlock opened up to John, letting him see behind the green curtain, as it were. He was shy about it at first, but then gradually got braver, more confident with how he and John interacted. John fell asleep molding a delicate scene in his and Sherlock's blossoming relationship: their first date out together after John's full physical recovery. He had dry, puffy red eyes, and he was sore from the neck down, handcuffed to a chair in the middle of a bloodstained room post-rape, but that one scene playing in his head kept a small smile on his face during sleep, infiltrating his dreams as he dozed.


	2. The Search

"Sherlock, will you sit down?" Lestrade said, rubbing at his eyes to try to clear them. Sherlock had been pacing in his office for the past four hours, tucked away in the halls of his mind palace, trying to figure out who took John and where. Greg sighed heavily before pushing his rolling chair away from his desk, standing up slowly before making his way to the door. "Coffee?''

"Two sugars," Sherlock grunted, waving his hands through the air to move useless thoughts out of the way. He turned on his heel as he reached the wall, his head angled down at the floor. Lestrade shut the door, clicking as it caught when Sherlock stopped midstep as he came to a realization. He pulled open the door and dashed down the corridor to where Lestrade was walking along. "Lestrade! I've got it! It's all part of the game!" Sherlock grabbed the Detective Inspector's shoulder, gripping it tightly in his eagerness.

"What? Sherlock, what are you on about?" Lestrade asked, pulling his arm away from Sherlock and crossing them on his chest. He took a step back, settling his weight evenly.

"Moriarty's game, Lestrade! He's using John to get to me! John is the key here, don't you get it? A few weeks back he bumped into me on the street while John was at work. He said to me, 'Oh, Sherly, are you ready for the next round of our game?' And I didn't know what he meant, and he got away, but now I know! It was John all along! It's always been John!" Sherlock was animated now, his hands moving at high speeds through the space in front of him. Lestrade looked even more lost and Sherlock let out an aggrivated noise. "It must be so annoying and dull to be you, Greg. Moriarty has this idea that he and I are playing a game, a battle of wits, if you will. And now, in his checking move I suppose, he has brought John into the equation. Again. He used my and John's association? Relationship, I suppose, against me at the pool and now he's done it again. However, I don't suppose John is wearing a parka full of Semtex at a public pool this time." Sherlock was excited again, the thrill of the hunt filling his veins.

Lestrade had kept a somewhat bewildered look on his face the whole time Sherlock was explaining Moriarty to him. He was silent for a few moments afterwards before clearing his throat with a fist held in front of his mouth. "Right then," Lestrade said, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I'll, uh, check the CC-TV footage from the night John was taken and see if there were any witnesses. Oh, and Sherlock?" The taller man stopped walking away and turned his head to look at the Detective Inspector. "Get some sleep, mate. Eat something, all right?"

Sherlock nodded with a small, forced smile, "All right, Greg." Lestrade clapped him on the back before turning into the break room for his coffee and letting Sherlock go back to his flat.

As Sherlock climbed into the cab he hailed in front of New Scotland Yard, he felt all the excitment and adrenaline leave his system and he suddenly felt very tired and drained. The fact that his blogger was who-knows-where with who-knows-what happening to him crashed over Sherlock like waves. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, rolling his thumb over the keys, turning it over in his hand. He struggled with wanting to call John and the knowledge that he was obviously in a situation in which he couldn't get it.

Against his better judgment, he turned it on, only hesitating over the dial key for John's mobile for a second. He pulled in a deep breath, it hitching in his throat when he heard the phone be picked up. "John?" he choked out, the shock of hearing it be answered clear in his voice.

"Mmm, no, I'm afraid," a velvety voice purred at him. "Much better looking. And smarter."

"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed, clutching his phone tighter in his hand. "Where are you keeping John? What have you done to him?"

Jim tutted at Sherlock, a smile present in his voice. "Now, now, Sherly dear. Settle down. I wouldn't tell you that even if I knew. I'm sure Johnny is somewhere safe and warm. Or maybe not, I really don't know."

"Why don't you know? Moriarty, if you harmed John in any way, I swear I will-"

"You'll what, Sherlock? Send your little Yard piggies looking for the big bad Jim? Please. Don't be so  _boring_ , Sherlock. Do try to think outside of the box a bit, darling. Ordinary doesn't suit you." Sherlock clenched his jaw, feeling the tension and anger collecting in his shoulders, pulling at the muscle. "Now, just run along home and call off the hounds, and I'll return poor little John to you. Maybe."

"Moriarty, you give John back to me right _NOW_!" Sherlock yelled, now almost crushing the phone in his hand. The cab driver turned his head slightly and flicked his eyes up to his mirror to check on his fare. Sherlock noticed and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "James Moriarty you will bring back John Watson to me _tomorrow_ unscathed or else I will destroy you in every way possible." _  
_

Jim could hear the menace in Sherlock's voice, and he should have been scared, or even a little worried. But he wasn't. He just laughed, and he pictured himself laughing right into that thin face, Sherlock edging back from him, nervous but too brave and proud to show it. Sherlock pulled the phone away, the loud laughter sudden in his ear, startling him. "Oh, Sherlock, you really don't think that you intimidate me, do you?" Jim pouted at his phone even though he knew Sherlock couldn't see him. "You'll never find John if I don't want you to. Or me, for that matter."

"Of course I can,  _James_. I've got the DI of Scotland Yard backing me, as well as his finest team of officers," Sherlock retaliated.

Jim laughed again. "Really? Anderson is one of the finest officers? Yes, well, I'm sure it was nice for John to know you. Say goodbye, Johnny boy." Jim pulled the phone away from his face, holding it out to John. Sherlock could hear the muffled screams of John, could almost see the panic in his face as, suddenly, the line went dead.

"John? John, are you there?" Sherlock cried out, just a moment too late for John to hear him.

* * *

 "Well, that was an adventure, wouldn't you say? I do love a chat with my dearest Sherlock," Jim drawled, tossing John's phone over to Sebastian. The silent man caught it, snatching it out of the air like it was nothing and slipping it into his pocket. "Johnny boy," Jim cooed, gently pulling the knot of the cotton gag apart behind John's head. "I'm sorry about this. I know it must be hard, not having Sherlock here to depend on. To give out verbal abuse, to worry you with his, ah, destructive habits. But you'll see that you have a better life here. With me, John, you can be safe. You won't have to worry about me trying to get my next fix. I won't slip into periods of silent brooding for days at a time and ignore you." Jim rubbed at the corners of John's mouth gently with his thumbs, the gag leaving angry red marks on the skin while John stared angrily at him. His eyes looked into back John's, the normally dark and cold ones now warm and inviting, a chocolatey brown rather than a harsh black. He gave John a small, genuine smile, before running a hand through the soft, blond hair on the side of his head.

John shuddered, Moriarty's touch still feeling wrong to him, no matter how kind he was being. Jim noticed the shake and a flash of what John thought couldhave been pain or dejection crossed his face. Jim sighed almost sadly before turning away from John, slowly letting his hand drop back down to his side. "C'mon, Sebby. The doctor needs his rest. Let's not keep him up any longer." The American nodded, turning towards the door and pulling it open carefully for his boss. John knew what they were doing, of course. Moriarty was the "good cop" and Moran was the "bad cop." They were trying to make John associate Moriarty with kindness and caring, and Moran with pain and suffering. They were trying to break him, to get him attached to Moriarty so that they could do whatever they were planning on with him. John knew that he couldn't hold out forever; he hadn't minded when Moriarty was stroking his face, and he did flinch when Moran's hand swung up as he passed John, but it was only to put it in his pocket.

The door shut with a loud noise, and Jim turned his head involuntarily towards it a bit. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, sighing heavily as he turned into the security room. He shooed the guards who were there out just by glancing at them, and he flopped down into one of the recently vacated chairs, spinning slightly at the sudden weight. "Why do you think he loves Sherlock, Sebby? Why not me? I mean, I've got what Sherlock's got, and more. I've got the looks, I've got the brains, I've got the wit. And I've got a reliable source of income _and_ no drug habit."

Sebastian shrugged, "I dunno, Jim. Maybe it's something to do with the fact that Sherlock doesn't blow up old ladies."

Jim shot Sebastian a look and scoffed before using the toe of one foot to spin himself around again. "Well, Sebby, if you didn't want to work here, why didn't you just say so?" He turned his head against the spinning chair to continually look at Sebastian. " _I_ think it's just that he needs a bit more work. Maybe a little more, hmm, tough love, shall we say?" Jim grinned at Sebastian, his head now bent over the back of the chair, one foot still moving to spin him. "Weeee," he called quietly, his voice empty of any real emotion. He stared right into Sebastian's eyes as the American nodded, and his eyes kept following him. Sebastian could feel the red-hot trails of Jim's stare trace his body, taking in the placement of his hands, his movements, every curve and dip of muscle bared by his black tank top. Sebastian tried his hardest to supress the needy shiver, and took in a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself.

 _"He loves John, Sebastian. Wants_ John  _not you. John Watson and James Moriarty forever, Seb. Not Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty. You are hired help, Seb, not his boyfriend. He brought you in after your dishonorable discharge, and you've been working wih him for years. And that's all it has been, work. Not a dating service, it's killing people that get in his way."_   Sebastian kept his eyes angled downward, but his head held high. He knew just how to make himself feel better. _  
_

He turned sharply down a corridor, planning on grabbing the key off the wall, it blending in and going unnoticed if you didn't pay attention. Sebastian had walked these halls and grabbed these keys so many times that he knew exactly where each key was for each room without looking. Key to "Fun Room A" was in the hallway by the security room, halfway across the building from the actual room. But the key to John's room, "Fun Room D," was kept by the break room, just three halls over.

He swiped his hand along the wall, plucking the key out of its niche with nimble fingers and never breaking his stride. He continued on through the building, taking sudden turns until he got to John's room. He pushed the key into the lock, turning it with more force than necessary, barrelling through the doorway and not bothering to pull the key out. He slammed the door shut behind him with his foot, storming over to John. He fished the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket angrily, John looking shocked and scared.

"No, please don't," John whimpered, before Sebastian hit him in the face, and the sound of flesh against flesh echoed slightly, reminding John of what was sure to come. Sebastian wrenched John's arms from the chair, roughly manhandling them in front of him. John fought back weakly, he hadn't eaten in two days, and all he'd been given was a bit of water this morning.

"Stop fighting me," Sebastian snarled, the first time he had ever spoken to John. "Hold still for one fucking second or I'll break your arms. I swear to God, Army Boy, I will snap them like twigs," Sebastian growled low in John's ear, making him shake slightly with fear and let out a little cry of surprise. "On your knees, now."

John quickly obeyed, knowing that it would be easier this way, if he did what Moran wanted. Moran unzipped his fly, and unsnapped the button on his denims. John folded his arms as best as he could, placing his forehead on his hands and trying not to cry this time. Moran stuck his fingers in front of John's face, and when John didn't react, shoved them into his mouth, wetting them a bit with John's saliva.

Sebastian pulled his fingers away from John's mouth, breathing heavily in anticipation. He did a very poor and rough job of preparing John, and he tried not to scream in pain when Sebastian shoved his fingers in deep one last time, twisting them on the way out. Sebastian took a hold of himself, leaning over John's back to hiss in his ear as he forced his way in, " _Jiiiiimmmmm."_ Sebastian could hear his own voice, low and husky and thick with need.

John stilled when Moran's breath crawled across his skin, the echo of the sighed name against his ears. He whimpered as Moran began pulling out slowly, dragging against the torn muscle, a bit of blood dripping out. "Fuck, Jim. Could make you feel so good," Moran breathed against John's skin. "So much better than that stupid-" Moran thrusted harder, snapping his hips forward roughly. "bland-" Another snap of the hips, "boring-" and another, "idiotic doctor." Moran rolled his hips as he rutted against John, biting back a moan. "If only you would let me, Jim." Moran's voice softened for a moment, before returning to its usual possesive growl, "But you won't, will you Jim?" Moran snarled at John, yanking a fistful of short hair back.

"P-please, s-st-stop!" John cried, stuttering with his sobs and the rough movements of Sebastian. Sebastian only went harder, faster, deeper, making John feel like he was being split in half. He lost track of how long it had been, the only thing he knew being that he wanted Moran to stop, and he said so, quiet at first, but slowly getting a litte bit louder.

"Shut up!" Sebastian snarled at John, sinking his teeth into the doctor's good shoulder for emphasis. Sebastian groaned, feeling close to the edge. "Fucking shit, Jim!" Sebastian made a small keening noise near John's ear as he came, whining Jim's name over and over. John shook slightly as Sebastian pulled out, his legs tired from supporting the extra weight for so long. Sebastian pulled his denims up, not having bothered to take off his pants. He fastened the button and then zipped up, carelessly pulling John's filthied pants up to a decent place. John managed to get up, still unsure on his legs. He tried pulling up his pants, but couldn't manage to get to them with the cuffs on.

John waited patiently as Sebastian caught his breath, and even sat in his chair obediently. His body was still shaking, both from sobs and physical exauhstion. He was nearly silent, though, afraid of what Moran might do if he made noise. He took in a deep breath, hearing it rattle in his chest. Moran walked over, a bit shaky, but not showing it. He took the key out of his pocket, now more able to focus on the handcuffs, calmer, his head clearer. His fingers didn't shake in anger this time as he locked the cuffs behind John's back again. He had a more confident stride to his walk as he opened and closed the door, locking it behind him.

Sebastian took in a satisfied breath, a happy smile ghosting over his face. It wasn't as good as it would be with Jim, would never even be close to how amazing Jim would be. But, it would have to do for now.  _"Maybe,"_ Sebastian thought.  _"Maybe Jim'll get bored with him and then he'll finally realize that I'm the one."_ Sebastian wore a hopeful smile now, but it fell as soon as he checked his phone seeing a text from Jim.

_Across the Yard. Time to play. Bring a friend or two. Happy birthday, Boston._

_JM_

Sebastian went to the storage room, shoving boxes away from the secret vault in the wall. He pulled out a long case, and kneeled on the floor to snap it open. He lifted the lid, checking that everything was in there. He pulled a few clips from a box, and placed them in an empty space. Sebastian whipped out his phone, thumbs flying across the keys as he texted two of his best men.

_NSY targets. Be there @ 16:30. Need rounds._

_SM_

* * *

 Sherlock was back at the Yard, pestering Anderson in forensics for results. While it would have been faster to do it himself, Sherlock decided to do this legally, for John. He had filled out a missing persons report, had surrendered his evidence to the police, and cleaned his flat of anything questionable before allow the police to search.

"What about the bit of cloth I found from the rug? Anything on it?" Sherlock hovered over the forensic scientist's shoulder, staring at the computer monitor set up next to the microscope.

Anderson's snide voice forced Sherlock to make a face. "No, freak. You found a thread. There's not much that a single thread can tell us. And, anyway, how do you know that it isn't from your or John's clothes, hmm? Or from a client? Your landlady?"

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, pushing himself away from Anderson's chair with long arms. "Because,  _Anderson_ , neither John nor I possess any clothing of a material similar to that. John wear wool or cotton jumpers almost every day, and the only thing I own that could be stupidly mistaken for that has not left my closet for years. We haven't had any clients meet in the flat for ages, and Mrs. Hudson doesn't wear men's clothing."

Anderson sneered down at his paper, and decided to banish Sherlock from the lab. Sherlock was uncharacteristically compliant, only throwing a minute-long tantrum about how Anderson had no right to make him leave, that he was the one whose flatmate was missing. Sherlock finally turned and stalked out of the room, fuming the entire way to the stairs. When he reached the door to the stairwell, he slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out Anderson's keys. He tossed them into the air, catching them as they fell down. He smirked and thought,  _"That's for being annoying, Anderson. You really should know better by now."_

He hurried up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. He pulled open the door to stairwell, slipping through and using his long legs to his advantage. He strode down the corridor, pushing past Donovan who muttered, "freak" after him, hardening the K-sound so it bit at Sherlock's ego slightly. He turned his head slightly in her direction, sneering, before storming into Lestrade's office, groaning loud and long as he collapsed into the empty chair.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, running a thumb over the keys absentmindedly. He was a little surprised to feel it vibrate in his hand as he got a call. He checked the screen to see who was calling, and didn't hesitate to pick it up when he saw the familiar  _Watson, John_ in small print. "John?" Sherlock asked, hoping beyond all hope that it would really be him this time.

"Wrong again, Sherlock. I thought you were supposed to be brilliant," Jim said, Irish accent thick. Sherlock could hear him pause to take a sip of something, the faint sounds of a late-night café filling in the silence. "John is asleep at home, dearie. Don't worry, I'm taking excellent care of him. He gets the loving he needs, and a pair of pretty new silver bracelets."

Sherlock hissed into the phone, anger quickly filling his head. "What have you done to John? Moriarty, I will find you and you will regret ever having lain a  _finger_  on John Watson." Sherlock could hear him chuckle deeply into the phone. He could see the shorter man in his mind's eye: dressed in a fine suit, hands casually in his pockets, head angled down slightly, sheltering his dark eyes from meeting Sherlock's bright blue ones. Moriarty was smirking down at the ground, suddenly looking up into Sherlock's face, and he could feel the black orbs pierce his thoughts.

"Oh, Sherlock," Jim tutted. "He's had much more than a finger lain on him, my dear." Jim chuckled again as Sherlock bristled with rage. "But, fun as it's been, I  _actually_ called to tell you that unless you retract your missing persons report on John, I'm afraid that the DI and all the officers working the case will meet untimely ends. Understand?"

Sherlock grit his teeth as he spat out an, "I understand. But do not, for  _one second_ believe that this means I've given up on finding John." He heard Moriarty snort into his drink, the quiet sound of liquid splashing an indicator of it.

"Okay, sure, Sherlock," Jim said, a laugh prominent in his voice. "Well, I'd better be off, darling. Remember, not a word of this to anyone and you call off the search. Oh, by the way," Jim said, sipping his drink again. "John is a wonderful houseguest. You should really have let him stay over more. Toodles!"

The line went dead, and Sherlock was left feeling a mix of anger and confusion, and something he couldn't quite put a name to. He decided to wait in the office until Lestrade came back from a call and tell him he'd called off the search. Sherlock thought about what he would say about it.  _"Well, John did meet this woman the other night. It may have been that they left on a date and he'd stayed the night. He probably just forgot. And I suppose they remained together tonight as well."_ Sherlock laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. Everyone knew that John wouldn't leave Sherlock alone on a danger night for a woman.  _"I'd forgotten, actually. There was some sudden family business that needed attending, I believe. Very urgent, and he'd had to go with no hesitations. He was supposed to send Mike round to check on me, but it most likely slipped his mind what with that_ family _ordeal."_ More plausible, but still unlikely and out of character for John. Sherlock huffed, agitated, and drew his legs up onto the chair. He spun himself around with a hand, grabbing his coat off the desk as he did, pulling it over himself as he settled in to wait. He fell into a rest-like state, as close as someone like Sherlock Holmes could get to sleep with a mind racing like his was.


	3. Three Months of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to finish this. It was a bit difficult writing Jim's family, but I'm working on it. And I've also got the last chapter ready, but there will be a couple more until it gets posted.

Close to three months had passed in the dirty grey room, and John had been given more and more privileges as time carried on. He was no longer tied up and cuffed to the chair, but he still was still locked in the room. He'd even been given a cot that was now pushed into a corner, the luxury of showers, and didn't have to relieve himself in a corner or in his pants, which had been disposed of about two weeks into his stay in the room. Moriar-  _Jim_  had given him a new pair, and told him that when they got too dirty that he would be given another pair.  _Shaving_ , even, all by himself. He knew now that there were cameras set up around the room, so he had only to signal and one of Jim's cronies would come in with a sort of chamber pot type deal, and he would do his business, and take small delight in the disgusted faces the goon would make as he removed the pot. He'd nearly given up all hope of ever being found, but he discovered that he didn't mind. He was taken out every three days or so and carried blindfolded through the building, switching from one person to the next, sometimes being carried around for a half hour before finally reaching the bathroom. He was allowed the privacy of his own curtained-off shower stall, though there were always a couple of guards stationed outside to make sure he didn't try to escape. Today was shower day and so John sat patiently on his bed, legs crossed underneath him, waiting for the guards to come in. The route to the shower was quick today, ten minutes tops, and John wondered what the occasion was. He tossed his dirty pants into the hamper by the door after a guard removed the blindfold, scurrying to the shower, and quickly snatching a towel from the pile on the vanity.

John realized suddenly in the shower, it was where he did his best thinking, that he didn't want to leave and go back to Baker Street. He just wanted to leave the grey room, maybe have an actual bed, bathroom, and clothes. He didn't want to go back to Sherlock, the man who'd never return his affections and just leave John pining after him, but he did want Jim. Jim. Kind, sweet, loving, caring, adoring, gentle Jim. Jim, who'd demanded that John get a cot on his third week, tired of seeing John sore and sleepless and getting injuries from the chair. Jim who provided for him, giving him good food and plenty of water to keep him happy and healthy. Well, as happy as he could be, unless Moran was around. Every time the door opened and it was the tall American, John became instantly terrified, cowering on the bed as far away from him as he could get. Moran always got to him, carrying with him a shot of sedative, which also eased the pain of Moran taking out his sexual frustrations. But Jim always made it better. John's thoughts flashed back to a hazy memory, a deep voice,  _Dear Jim, will you fix it for me?_ , a face that was blurry but still recognizable. He shook his head, clearing away the unwanted memory and instead focusing on Jim again. Jim would hold him after barging in to find Sebastian in the middle of harming John, pushing the American off and screaming for his guards, and then rush to John's side, comforting him as he shook, John no longer crying after so many weeks of the same thing.

Jim would be so tender, so caring, would caress his cheek and stroke his hair. He would bury his face in the downy strands, now much longer than what John was used to. He would whisper apologies and promises, resting John's head against his thin chest, not even caring that tears were staining the obviously expensive material of a suit, caring even less when he was dressed casually in a V-neck and denims. John smiled at the thought of how kind Jim could be, away from prying eyes and people he needed to scare. He finished up his shower, checking his reflection in the mirror as he ignored the guards tracking his movements. He didn't need to shave today and so he grabbed the fresh pair of pants that hung on a towel rack, blue ones because it was Thursday, and pulled them on quickly after toweling off. He didn't feel the need to hide from the guards, they'd seen much worse than his clean naked body he was sure, and then he stood obediently at the door, awaiting his blindfold. When the dark cloth descended over his eyes, he felt more relaxed and at ease. The larger of the two guards hefted him up over a shoulder, John's tired body lying limp and easy to carry through the building. He settled in for the ride, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

John started awake when the guard began climbing a flight of stairs; they'd never gone up stairs or in a lift before and John wasn't aware that there was more than one floor to the building. He let out a little confused noise, the guard quickly hushing him like one would a child, and John tensed, but didn't press the issue. He still couldn't see, but did notice the change in lighting. It was less like a prison and more like a home, the light more yellow and gentler than the harsh white of downstairs. He couldn't hear much, but as the guard's climbing slowed and a door opened, he he could very, very faintly hear something that sounded like... The Bee Gees? The music got louder as they walked down what John supposed was a corridor, stopping as the guard rapped three time on the door.

"Come in," Jim's voice called, and John heard the door open, and the guard shuffled into the room. "Oh, fantastic! John, darling, I see you've showered for today." Jim must have motioned for the guard to put John down and leave, because as soon as his feet hit the carpeted floor, he heard the swishing of trousers and the click of the door. "Oh, right, go on and take off the blindfold then. Nothing to hide from you here." John did as Jim said, gasping at what he saw. It was an exact replica of his bedroom at Baker Street, minus the smell of antiseptic and the poor view of the alleyway between 221 and the building behind them.

"Oh, Jim, you're wonderful!" John wanted to hug Jim, but he wasn't sure if he'd be okay for that, so he opted to clasp his hands in front of his mouth, smiling broadly. Jim grinned at him, smile warm and welcoming. Jim stood a bit taller now, chest puffed with pride, happy that John was happy. "It's just like back at the flat! Oh, but what's this?" John had looked around and seen a door where there had never been in his room. He walked over, shooting Jim a smile and a confused look over his shoulder. John opened the door and found that it led into a common room, with a kitchenette and a little dining area, and a good size sofa in front of an entertainment center. John gasped quickly the moment he laid eyes on the room. It was nicer than anything he'd had in his life, his family always toeing the line of poverty. He turned back to Jim, half in his room and half in the new room. He smiled shyly, then opened his arms, asking silently for a hug.

Jim hesitated for a second, his smile wavering, but quickly returning as he strode across the room to John. He put his arms around John's shoulders, pressing their bodies close, and resting his head against John's. He heard John's happy sigh, and could feel John's lips curl into a smile against his neck. "You're welcome," Jim rumbled, his voice low and quiet. John grinned wider against Jim's neck, and then pulled back from the hug, Jim's hands dropping down to his waist. John's hands strayed up behind Jim's neck and they stood like that for a long while, staring silently into the other's eyes. Eventually Jim broke the stare, moving one hand up to entwine his fingers with John's, turning the both of them towards the still open door. "Shall we?" Jim asked, smiling at John. He nodded quickly, a broad smile lighting up his face. They walked into the room, the walls a light shade of blue, John's favourite. The furniture was done up in coffee colours, a bold compliment to the blue walls and white trim. John smiled around at the room again, tugging Jim along to the sofa where he sat down, pulling Jim after him. When Jim was seated, he wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, and John leaned into the touch, nestling his head into the space between Jim's neck and shoulder.  _A perfect fit_ , John thought.

Jim reached forward a little, pulling John along with him as he leaned towards the coffee table for the remote. "You've been so good these past months that you deserve a reward, Johnny boy," Jim cooed, flipping on the telly to a random channel. John beamed up at Jim, proud of himself for doing so well. They settled back into the sofa, curled together for a while, Jim disregarding the potential for wrinkles in the fine suit he was wearing in favor of cuddling with John. He felt the gooseflesh raise on John's skin and his slight shiver as the air kicked in, and then Jim remembered that John was wearing only pants. "Dear me, you've not got any proper clothes on! Come along, then," Jim said, standing up from the sofa and pulling John up after him by a hand, a protesting whine leaving John's throat as his source of warmth was torn away from him. "Oh, don't be so childish, darling. It's only clothes." John pouted as Jim led him through to the replica room, and sat John gently but firmly on the bed as he turned to the closet.

John smiled at Jim's back, crossing his legs underneath him as he watched the slightly taller man rummage through the closet for something for him to wear. He saw Jim flip past a dozen or so jumpers on hangers, muttering under his breath about them, accent prominent in the hushed tones. "Hold on a mo, are those all my clothes from the flat?" John asked, his voice heavy with confusion. Jim nodded silently and slowly, continuing his low conversation with himself about the clothes, pushing them all around in the closet. "And this is all the original furniture?" Jim nodded again, pulling out a shirt and trousers, but making a face at them and putting them back. "Right. Then how did you get all of this without," John glanced around the room quickly, as if afraid that the man he was about to speak of would pop out of nowhere. " _Him_  noticing? I mean, he's not stupid, he'd notice all the furniture and clothes missing." Jim barked out a laugh, short and quick and harsh. He stopped messing with the hanging clothes and turned to John, one hand on his hip.

"Do you really think I'm that thick? Obviously I ensured that Sherlock would be at his least attentive and then continued the state for a few days, replacing the furniture with newer versions that looked like it. And there was nothing to be done about the clothes but buy an all new wardrobe and replace them." Jim cocked his head at John, his eyes calculating as they scanned the round face across the room from him. "What? It's simple, really."

John let out an amazed little laugh and said, "So you drugged him for a while, stole my furniture and clothes, and replaced them with all new stuff. Why not just buy the new things and put them in here?" John was secretly flustered and loving the fact that somebody would go to such trouble for him and his comfort. Jim shot him a puzzled look, before replying matter-of-factly, "Because I wanted you to be at your most comfortable and like you were at home with me. And the clothes would already smell like you, so I could borrow a jumper while I was away on business and still feel like you were there. Boyfriends' jumpers are always the most comfortable ones, and that is a fact." John's eyebrows shot up so far, it seemed like they would stay permanently stuck to the edge of his hairline.

"Oh, um- I- We," John replied eloquently as Jim rolled his eyes and stalked over to sit down next to John on the bed. John scrambled backwards as far as the headboard, before coming to a sudden stop and Jim prowled closer, on his hands and knees on John's bed, eyes hungry and predatory. "Is that, erm- are we- Uhhhh," John again tried to formulate a sentence, his breathing coming in short pants as Jim swung a leg over his waist, eyes still searching and dark, never once leaving John's gaze. Now John was underneath Jim, hands planted firmly on either side of his head, the weight of Jim hovering over John's lower body, his forehead resting against John's as their eyes locked, dark blue staring into a sea of black and brown, pupils blown wide. John became hyper-aware of the fact that he was wearing nothing but pants, while Jim was still fully dressed.

"Are we what, John?" Jim purred in his ear, kissing his way down John's neck. John's breath came even faster, and when Jim's lips began pressing skin between them in kisses, he moaned softly. Jim grinned around the flesh, and then sucked it hard into his mouth, nipping at it and making John moan again and writhe beneath him. Jim released the mouthful of John's skin he had, and kissed it lightly before trailing lazy kisses back up to John's cheek, eventually making his way to John's mouth. They locked lips quickly, John sighing happily into the kiss, loving the feeling of Jim's soft lips against his. Jim smirked into John's mouth, darting out his tongue to tease at John's lips. He slipped away for a moment, hushing the involuntary whine that left John's mouth with two fingers across his mouth, and sat back on his haunches, his weight hovering over John's groin so close that he could almost feel it. Jim quickly pulled off his suit jacket and tie, tossing them with a careless precision onto a chair. He managed to toe off his shoes and reached back to swipe them off the bed, pulling his belt out of the loops and throwing it in the general direction of the chair. "Better," Jim said, dropping back down onto his elbows over John, his forearms cradling John's head, his fingers twisting in John's blond locks.

John leaned up to kiss Jim, catching his lips with his own, Jim's top one sliding over his, the bottom being sucked into John's mouth and bitten lightly. John swallowed the quiet moan Jim allowed to slip from his throat, running his tongue over the bite to soothe it. Jim dropped his hips to press against John, circling them once before drawing back up as quickly as he had dropped. John whined into Jim's mouth, arching up to try to gain friction. Jim did not relent, and instead pinned John's arms above his head with a hand around both wrists. John tried once more, ignoring the shiver that went through his body. He finally found purchase against the inside of Jim's leg, just enough to feel Jim's radiating body heat through the fabrics. He rubbed against Jim's leg, his pants and Jim's suit too much clothing right now.

John groaned lowly, and Jim felt it go straight through him like an electric shock. John pawed uselessly at the waist of Jim's trousers, breaking their kiss to rumble, "Take 'em off." Jim smirked against John's lips and rolled off of him, stripping down to his pants, and John snickered at the sight. "What?" Jim pouted, climbing back on top of John. "Your pants, Jim. I do like the skulls, though, they're a nice touch," John said, laughing shortly as Jim snapped the elastic waistband with a thumb, shrugging sheepishly. He looked up at Jim, face hovering inches from his, and he reached his now free hands up. He placed one firmly, yet gently, on Jim's cheek, and the other circled around his head to entwine his fingers with the short, dark hair. John pulled Jim in for a searing kiss, sending electric waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

Jim sighed quickly into the kiss, trailing one hand down John's torso. John was studiously trying to ignore the paths of gooseflesh Jim's fingers left as they wandered across the pudge of John's ribs, his stomach, waist. He failed miserably in that task, but became immediately self-concious of his body, pressed against Jim's lean one, the muscles there, but not overly defined. John blinked rapidly, his breathing shallow, and he sniffled once, lightly. Jim's head snapped up from watching his hand ghost over the blue fabric at John's hip at the sound, and his look of lust was replaced with one of concern and fear.

"John, darling, what's wrong?" Jim asked, drawing his hand up by John's head quickly. "Have I done something wrong? Gone too far?" Jim attempted to dismount John, to lay his head on the pillow next to him. John stopped him quickly, large hand on the thin, pale hip to keep him in place. John shook his head fervently, assuring Jim that it wasn't him. "What is it, then, John? Do you want to stop?"

John shook his head again, staring up into the brown eyes of Jim, dark eyebrows knit together in a look of worry. "It's just that- I've never- I mean, I," John attempted to explain, tripping over his words and getting frustrated at the lack of clarity. Jim saw pain and the shine of tears in John's eyes, and he gently laid down next to John, nestling his head on the broad ex-army chest. He placed his arm carefully across John's middle, curling pale fingers around his side to anchor them both to each other. "I've never been the most fit person and-" Jim's head shot straight up, face screaming denial.

"John Hamish Watson! You have always been and aways will be the most perfect thing I've ever seen!" Jim argued, now able to keep his gaze locked on John. John shot him a withering glance, and said simply, "Just let me finish, Jim, okay?" Jim pursed his lips and nodded curtly.

"I've always been a bit heavier than I'd have liked, and now with you, I dunno. This side of thirty is- I just feel," John fished for the words. "I don't feel fat, really, but I just don't feel as fit as you. You, Jim, are amazing. You're thin and strong and perfect and your eyes are the most wonderful shade of brown I've ever seen. It's not your fault, so don't look at me like that. It's just that you're the single most perfect and amazingly beautiful thing I've ever seen in my whole life. And I just- I just don't know why you'd want  _me_  out of all the people that would jump over each other to have you."

Jim huffed indignantly and rolled over, kicking his way under the fluffy white duvet. "Fine," Jim spat at the wall. "No cuddles until you realise that the reason I chose you was because you are, quite frankly, the only thing that's ever made me as happy as I am. You will be allowed to be under the covers with me when you see that you, John Hamish Watson, are the only one who has been able to get to me. Nobody gets to me, John, but you did. And that makes you more special than anything that has ever exsisted or that ever will. And once you know with every single fibre of your being that I will love you until the end of time and so, so long after that, then you will be permitted to put your arms around me in this bed."

John blushed furiously, eyes watering in happiness, and he swiped at them with a hand. He turned on his side, staring at Jim's back, mostly hidden under the bright white cover. He inched closer to him, placing a warm hand where Jim's hipbone should be, his shape distorted by the blanket. John brought his head in close to Jim's, his breath ghosting over the back over Jim's neck. Jim suppressed the light shiver that threatened to roll through his body, not wanting to give in to John just yet. John smiled deeply, Jim's words echoing in his head and raising his self-confidence. "Thank you," John whispered, voice thick with emotion, and Jim's lips curved into a small smile. He rolled over, displacing John's hand and laying one of his own on John's cheek. He wiped away a warm tear that had settled in just under John's eye, and kissed him on the nose.

"Don't thank me for telling the truth, John. It's what I'm obliged to do, as your boyfriend," Jim said back, his eyes searching John's face, not cold and calculating, but soft and loving. John smiled back, letting his eyes slide closed as he settled into the pillow. Jim raised the blanket and tossed it over John, and he shuffled down a bit, putting their faces on a more level height and kissed John lightly on the lips.

* * *

Three months since John had disappeared. Two months left alone in the flat, two weeks of relapse, one week of Mrs. Hudson phoning Mycroft and one week in a new flat that Mycroft approved for him. A flat in a building where the other tenants where obviously watching him, no matter what Mycroft said. Sherlock laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering again what the feeling could be that had lingered deep within his chest since he took back the missing persons report.

He sorted through his emotional database in his mind palace for the thousandth time, all of his searches coming back fruitless. He grunted, frustrated, and then broadened the mental search. He finally,  _finally_ , came back with a few results. ( _Love, guilt, anxiety_.) Not guilt, he was never guilty. Not anxiety either, so it had to be love. He sighed heavily, his breath rumbling in his chest.  _"Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,"_  Sherlock thought, and he mulled this over. Was he really in love with John? He supposed so, and left it at that. He moved on methodically to his own private search for John.

He had used as many clues as he had been able to collect, stealing back his evidence from the Yard because he was too impatient for the proper paperwork to be filled out. He had started a city-wide search, employing the help of his homeless network to try to get the details. They had come back with nothing, no sightings of Moriarty or John, nor any known business partners of Moriarty's. Sherlock turned onto his side, curling his long legs up, draping as much of his favorite blue dressing gown as he could over his thin pyjama pants.

His mind raced through all possible options for continuing the search. He'd hit a dead end when Mycroft forced him into this flat, keeping a close eye on Sherlock, making sure the girl who somehow broke into his quarters everyday forced him to eat and shower. What was her name? Amy? Sherlock liked her, actually, though he would never admit it. She had something more than the ordinary people. She was something special, but nowhere near as special as John. No-one would ever be  _that_  special. Sherlock's eyes raked the wall in front of him blindly, not seeing it, and instead seeing John's smiling face in his mind's eye. The corners of his lips twitched in an attempt to smile, before an unwelcome thought came to the forefront of his mind.  _"What if Moriarty has had John killed? Tortured? Where is John now?"_  He sat upright, as an unfamiliar pain settled in his ribs, right near his heart. He sucked in a deep breath, his chest feeling tight and constricted. Sherlock thought for a moment that maybe this is how John felt, if maybe something had been a trigger for him and made it hard for him to breathe.

Sherlock swung his long, long legs over the side of the bed, forcing them to bring him to the kitchen and then further still to the cabinet. He opened a cupboard door, yanking down the bottle of cooking sherry from the top shelf and tearing the lid off of it as fast as he could manage. He began drinking the alcohol quickly, downing half the bottle in a matter of seconds. He slammed it back down onto the countertop hard, hard enough for unwashed mugs and plates to rattle in the sink. The bad lighting of the cheap bulb in the overhead turned his pale skin sallow. He glared at his own hand, wrapped protectively around the bottle, and sneered sharply before lifting it back up to his lips.

"I'm so sorry John," Sherlock mumbled against the mouth of the bottle. He tilted both the bottle and his head backwards, letting the liquid scorch a path to his stomach, ignoring the fact that he was wrecking his liver and would regret this in the morning when he woke up. He finished the whole bottle, tearing apart his kitchen in search of more alcohol to numb the pain of losing John. He once glanced at the bright green numbers of the clock on the stove, and scowled. It was only 3:15, and none of the shops would be open at this time. He would have to make do with what he had, which wasn't much.

He had finished the bottle of cooking sherry, so that was out, but he still had the bottle of red wine that Amy had brought under the guise of a housewarming gift, and a small bottle of vodka he'd nicked from the break room at Scotland Yard just to prove to himself that he still could. Sherlock grabbed the two bottle by the necks and set them harshly down on the table. He sat himself at the small dining table, staring at the empty wall in utter hatred as he opened the vodka.

* * *

Jim rolled over slightly in bed, starting awake when he bumped into a large, warm shape. His brown eyes snapped open, body immediately kicking into defensive mode. He took a second to realize that it was just the sleeping form of a one John Watson, his boyfriend. He hummed happily before turning completely around to be facing John. Jim burrowed deeper into the blankets, touching his forehead to John's chest.

John woke slightly at the feeling of something heavy touching him. He rolled onto his back a little, the heavy something moving with him. He cracked open an eye, glancing downwards. He saw a head full of soft, short dark hair, and he placed a gentle hand on it. The head turned to look at him, and he saw the brown eyes and gentle smile of Jim. "Morning, love," John whispered, voice croaky with sleep. He felt Jim's lips curl into a smile against his bare chest, Jim having turned his head back to a normal position.

"It's round three, actually." Jim sat up slowly, stretching languidly, his joints popping and cracking from stiffness. John watched passively from his horizontal position, appreciating the view he was getting of the rippling muscles. "Probably should get some food in you. Last time you ate was when? This morning?"

John nodded sleepily, and nuzzled his face into the pillow further. "'M too tired to do anything. Ten more minutes," he said, voice drifting away into a whisper once more. Jim laid back down next to John on his side, looking into the ice blues that had streaks of a darker shade radiating from the pupil. John stared back at him under heavy eyelids, blinking long and slow, fighting to reopen them. Jim placed a careful hand on the back of John's head, tangling his fingers with the blond strands. He leaned over John's ear, taking in a deep breath, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear.

"JOHN! OH, SWEET CHRIST, HELP! HELP! JOHN, QUICKLY, I'VE GOT AN EMERGENCY!" Jim screamed into John's ear, and pulled his head back a millisecond after, trying to avoid John's as it rocketed up in attentiveness. John sprang from the bed, looking frantically around, his body tense and searching for danger.

"What?! Jim, what is it? What's wrong?" John was thrown into a momentary frenzy, wanting to protect Jim. Jim smiled and fell back on the pillows calmly. "I am suffering from a severe lack of kisses and cuddles, is what's wrong."

John shot him a sour look, irritated beyond belief at having been thrown into fight-or-flight mode over Jim's need for affection. "Are you fucking kidding me right now, Jim? You wake me up by yelling at me, and making me think there's something horrendously wrong? And you expect  _rewards_  for it? You are un-fucking-believable." Jim's face instantly lost its smug smirk, replaced with a slack line; his eyes were no longer twinkling with mischief, but soft and remorseful.

John could tell that he had hit a nerve, and as he watched Jim's face crumple, he regretted yelling at him. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just that I thought something was happening to you, and I wanted to protect you. Oh, come now, don't cry." John climbed back on the bed, wrapping an arm around Jim's shaking shoulders with a concerned look on his face. He pulled Jim in close, hushing him quietly, rocking back and forth slowly as the shaking slowed and only faint hiccups were heard.

"I'm s-sorry, John," Jim croaked, breaking the silence, hiccups making his words disjointed and breaking them up. "I sh-ouldn't ha-ave done that." Jim sniffled a little, burying his face in John's neck. His voice was raspy and broken, "I j-ust wanted to cuddle. You pro-obably hate me now, don't you?"

John looked down at his hands on Jim's bicep and hip, his own expression one of pain and sadness. "No, Jim. No, of course I don't hate you, darling. I'm sorry that I snapped like that, but next time maybe try not to mess with triggers, okay?" He nudged Jim into sitting up, and turned to face him. "Okay?" John ran a hand through the dark hair above Jim's ear, feeling it soft and light on his fingers.

Jim nodded a little, swiping at his eyes quickly and whispering, "Okay." He turned on his side to lay back down, curling his legs up close as he put his back to John. He could feel John lying down behind him, keeping a bit of distance between them to allow Jim his space. Jim was glad, he usually wanted to be left alone after one of his breakdowns, but he was glad that John was there for company.

John stared at the back of Jim's head, waiting for him to say something, anything. He didn't expect much, and after a few minutes of tired silence, he rolled over. He turned back over almost immediately when he heard Jim's soft voice in the empty room.

"My father was never home unless it was to shag my mum, drink, and beat us. Mum had four other kids to take care of. My oldest brother was always in trouble, my older sister got knocked up at fifteen, my other brother was mute, and my little sister was always my responsibility. It was all I could do to get through the day without a beating or getting yelled at," Jim stared at the wall across the room, not seeing the bland wallpaper, but his childhood home. "It was always so  _loud_ , John. Mum and Ellie fighting, Ellie's baby, Devin coming home and screaming at William, or Janie just crying because she was too little to understand why everyone yelled."John carefully placed a hand on Jim's elbow, feeling the heat radiating from him even through the cover.

"When Mum died, Dad shipped us all off to different relatives. He couldn't stand the sight of us, reminded him too much of Mum, he said. Sent Ellie to live with her baby's dad, Devin went off to jail and is won't be putting any of us in harm's way, I made sure of it. William went to live with my aunt, and Janie and I got sent to live with another aunt and her kids. They were okay, but I promised myself that I'd never forgive him for splitting us up. And," Jim sucked in a shaky breath, drawn back to the present by the warm weight of John's hand, "I didn't. He got what was coming to him."

"Jim," John whispered, voice soothing and gentle to Jim's tired ears. "Jim, love, why don't I put the kettle on and then we'll get some food? Sound good?" Jim nodded a little, the rustling of hair against pillow the only indication of the movement. John carefully got out of bed, darting over to the closet and grabbing a pair of trousers that Jim had left hanging on the handle and pulled them on. He walked out to the kitchenette, filled up the electric kettle with water, and set it to boil. He searched in the cupboards for mugs, and found that they were bare except for pairs of mugs, plates, and silverware. He smiled to himself and grabbed the two mugs, setting them down by the kettle.

John walked back to the bedroom, peeking his head around the corner to see if Jim was up yet. He saw Jim walking along the side of the bed, picking up clothes off the floor and laying them carefully on the bed. He heard the faint ding of the kettle, and he turned silently back to make tea. When the tea was all made, he carefully carried them into the bedroom, setting his down on the nightstand and bringing Jim's around to his side of the bed where Jim was sitting on the edge, dressed in his trousers and shirt, tie loose around his neck, his hair sticking up in all different directions. John sat down next to Jim gently, offering the mug to Jim slowly. Jim's hands were pressed together between his knees, and as he relaxed the muscles in his legs to take the cup,  John squeezed his knee with a free hand.

"Thank you," Jim whispered to John as he took the mug, blowing on the hot tea to cool it before taking a tentative sip. "This is fantastic, John. How did you know how I like my tea?"

John grinned and patted Jim's thigh. "Just a guess." Jim allowed a small smile to cross his face before setting the mug down carefully on the floor near the wall. "Let's get you some clothes now, okay?" John nodded and allowed Jim to pull him to his feet. He stepped over Jim's shoes carefully, noting that Jim's eyes were just the tiniest bit redder, his breathing more even, save for the occasional shuddering breath.

"Here," Jim said, handing John a shirt and bending carefully to pick up his mug of tea. "What do you want to eat?" John heard the exhaustion in Jim's voice, reminding him of his mum; strained to the breaking point, but trying to keep it together for John's sake.

"Whatever's easiest, darling," John replied, pulling the shirt over his head, before ruffling his hair to get some semblance of order. Jim wasn't meeting his eyes, a trait uncommon for the mastermind. John carefully placed his hand on Jim's bicep, worry lining his face. "Are you okay? And don't say yeah, because I can see you're not."

Jim sighed, walking away to place his mug on the table in the small dining room. "I'm f- It's not your fault, John. I just get into these moods and usually nobody's here to help, and so I just go out and do something... Exciting. But let's just get you some food." John stared longingly at Jim as he walked out the door at the opposite end of the common room. The door opened and shut too quickly for John to see what, if anything, was inside. He resigned to just sipping his cold tea on the sofa.

Jim came out a half hour later, after John hearing muffled yelling in what sounded like Gaelic, Jim's hair sticking out like he had been running his hands through it and pulling at it the whole time. "Chinese good? It's the only thing that'll get here in a good amount of time." John nodded silently, knowing that Jim knew exactly what he would want to eat.

Jim shut himself off in the room again, and John heard rapid Chinese and the light sounds of Jim pacing. When the noises stopped, John stood and placed his mug carefully on the coffee table. He walked quietly, so, so quietly up to the door. He raised a hand, two careful knuckles poised to rap gently on the wood and-

"Ow! John, what was that for?" Jim rubbed his forehead where John's hand had come into contact with it. Jim had just so happened to have opened the door right when John was knocking. He raised his deep brown eyes up to John's, seeing the shocked expression, and dropped his hand. "I guess that was my fault. Should've been a bit more careful with opening doors when curious Johns are abound." Jim winked and slipped past John and sat on the sofa.

John followed after, calling apologies with a smile. He sat next to Jim on the sofa, and pulled his legs up so they could lay over the arm of it. He carefully turned so his head was on Jim's lap, and settled his hands on his stomach. "Jim? Tell me more about your childhood. I'm sure you know everything about mine."

Jim stiffened for a moment, and hesitated in speaking. "John, I- I don't really know if that's the  _best_ idea. It was pretty... It was rough, to say the least."

"Jim, please? If we're going to be together, I should at least like to know your beginnings."

Jim groaned lightly, and looked down at John's hopeful face in his lap, and didn't look away even as John turned his head in, nosing at the bottom of his fly. "John, mmm, if you keep doing that I shall surely never be able to concentrate on my past," Jim moaned, body going slack against the back of the sofa. John smiled wickedly at the stitches of Jim's trousers and sat straight up.

"Then I suppose I'll sit like this,"John said, settling into the sofa. Jim whined quietly, reaching down to readjust himself through his trousers.

* * *

Jim awoke to the usual sounds in the Moriarty house. The rooster crowing outside, the din of pots and pans clanking against each other, his mum and Ellie fighting over the baby. Ellie was fifteen and pregnant, Devin was seventeen and a delinquent, William was fourteen and mute. Jim was twelve and already a genius, and Janie, poor Janie. Janie was eight and had no idea why everyone in her family was so angry, what they all yelled about.

Jim managed to tumble out of bed, earning himself a silent sneer from Will as the youngest brother started his noisy daily routine. "Get bent," Jim snarled at William, who shot him a series of rather rude hand signs. Jim signed back at him a phrase that would have gotten him a slap on the back of the head from his mum had she been in the boys' room. As it were, she was downstairs screaming in her thick accent, and Jim bolted down the stairs the second he heard his name.

"Yeah, Mum?" Jim asked, half-dressed with his hair all ruffled and a questioning look on his face as he peeked around the corner into the kitchen and dining room.

"Yeah?" Mrs. Moriarty replied, voice dangerous. "Did you just 'yeah' me, young man?" Jim stiffened as he realized his mistake.

"I mean, yes, Mum?" The young boy's voice was all sugar and sweetness. Mrs. Moriarty scowled at her youngest son, and motioned him into the kitchen with the wooden spoon she had clutched in her hand. Jim nudged Ellie's foot with his own roughly as he made his way to the stove, passing her sullen form seated at the table, and she snarled lowly at him.

"Ellie! Do not snarl at your brother! You're not a wild dog!" Jim stuck his tongue out at his sister, and she made a face back at him as she placed a hand on her slightly swollen stomach.

"Yes, Mum sorry," Ellie replied, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt. She slumped back in the old wooden chair, the wood creaking as it settled under the teenager's weight. Jim's tongue darted back into his mouth as his mum turned back round, her wild black hair pulled back in a severe bun.

"You'll need to walk Janie to school this morning, James." Jim groaned internally; his mother had used his real name. This was going to be a long day. He nodded anyway, fighting the overwhelming urge to visually pick apart his mother and sister. He couldn't help but notice that the lines on her face were the slightest bit more prominent, the bags under her eyes dark through the makeup she had on. Her greys were growing steadily in number, despite her best efforts to dye it away. "And pick her up, walk her home, help with her homework, and start dinner. Devin and I are both working late, Ellie's got an appointment for the  _baby_ ," Jim noticed how his mum ground out the word, "and your father hasn't called in a few days. William has his swim practice until seven, so he'll be home to help out then."

Jim nodded slowly, trying his best to keep the scowl off his face as his mum listed his responsibilities. It wasn't that he didn't like Janie, she was his whole world and she was the only thing he truly loved, but he had hoped to do some calculus work with his professor. But now that Janie needed to be walked home from school, he couldn't stay after. He sighed quietly, increasing the rush of air that escaped when he breathed the tiniest bit to remain discreet.

"Don't sigh at me, James Andrew Moriarty!" Jim huffed swiftly, crossing his arms across his thin, 12-year-old bare chest. "And go put a shirt on! I'm not running a brothel here!" Jim lunged away from the counter where he was leaning, speeding out of the kitchen before he got caught in the inevitable fight.

* * *

"And it basically went like that. I'd help with Janie, William had swim almost every night, Ellie never lifted a finger because of the baby, and Mum and Devin worked extra hours. Until Devin got nipped for some stupid petty crime. He turned into an almost exact copy of our father, and ended up the same way dear old Dad did. Dead without a pence to his name."

John had stayed close to Jim on the couch, and eventually pulled Jim in close to cuddle the dark head into his chest. Jim's upper body was sprawled across John's torso, his head nestled by John's right bicep. Jim sighed quietly, turning his head to place a gentle kiss on John's arm. John smiled down at Jim, observing the limp body. Jim's eyes were closed, would have looked peaceful if his eyebrows hadn't been knit together so tightly. His jaw was clenched and his lips were tight, much lighter than normal as he pressed them together.

"I'm sorry, Jim," John said, stroking Jim's dark hair to soothe him. Jim visibly relaxed, eyebrows falling back to a neutral position, jaw falling slack. John understood problematic families too well. "I am so, so sorry. I wish I had been able to be there for you, Jim."

Jim just nodded, and then suddenly reached for his pocket when he felt his mobile vibrate. "What?" Jim snapped, answering the phone harshly, a sharp contrast to the way he was cuddling with John on the sofa. "Well then bring it up, Sebastian. I'm starving," Jim placed the phone on his shoulder, muffling the sounds of Sebastian's voice and covering the microphone at the same time. He mouthed, "sorry," up at John before standing carefully and walking to the door in John's room. "Yes, okay, hurry." John stood up from the sofa and stretched, his back cracking and shoulders popping.

"Jim? Want me to pull out the plates?" John called, already meandering over to the cupboard.

"No, let's just eat on the sofa," Jim responded, walking in with a plastic bag full of Chinese. "Still warm."

"Fantastic," John smiled, walking to take the bag from Jim's hand. He placed a gentle kiss on Jim's cheek, feeling the muscles tighten as he smiled, this time with it reaching his eyes. They walked to the sofa together, smiling at each other like idiots and settled down with their food on the coffee table. John pulled out the food, as Jim picked up the remote and turned on the telly. The pair settled in to eat, watching the program with a vague interest, but mostly grinning over at the other around a mouthful of lo mein.

* * *

Jim and John had sat on the sofa watching crap telly and eating their Chinese food for hours, watching quiz shows and racing against the other to get the correct answer. John almost always always lost, but got consolation kisses as a prize. There were lots of playful punches, and nearly as many laughs. John fell asleep on Jim, both laying on their sides facing the screen, and Jim wrapped his arms around John's middle so he wouldn't fall off. He nuzzled the back of John's neck, the too-long hair tickling his nose. He pressed a gentle kiss to the skin, and smiled when he heard the contented sigh escape from John's lips.

"We need to get you a haircut. I can nearly style it, it's so long," Jim whispered, smiling when John snuggled back into him.

"Well, maybe I'd like a plait in my gorgeous blond locks," John retorted, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep. Jim snorted into the back of John's neck, tightening his hold on the doctor the tiniest bit before he wiggled out of the warm arms to walk to his room. "I'm off to take a shower. Be back in a few." John smiled over his shoulder at Jim who stretched like a cat on the couch, then curled up facing the door.

"I'll be waiting when you get back, darling." Jim grinned sleepily and drifted off almost immediately. John tried to keep his legs from shaking too hard, his knees from buckling, his stomach from emptying its contents all over the place. He shut the door to the bedroom as quietly as he could, allowing himself to collapse against it. John put his head in his hands and sobbed quietly. He wept for himself, for Sherlock, for Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, Harry, his mum and dad, Sarah, for everyone he wept. John sobbed silently, standing on unsteady legs, shuffling over to the bathroom on auto-pilot. He shucked his clothes, turned on the water mechanically, tears still leaving wet tracks down his cheeks.

John stepped into the shower, sinking down to the floor again, the too-hot water burning less than the shame and despair he felt itching under his skin. He could feel the helplessness writhing inside him, could feel the familiar dark tendrils of blame unfurling from the shadowy corners of his mind. John cried and cried, cried on the floor until the water started running cold and he realized he had stopped producing tears and was just sobbing. His throat was sore, so sore, and his entire body ached from being in one place for so long.  _How long do I have to pretend?_  John shook with another dry sob, and he attempted to stand again. He managed to get up, a trembling hand reaching to turn the water off. He pushed open the curtain and sobbed again, a broken little sound, and wrapped himself in a towel. He took three more off the rack, putting one down on the floor before laying down on it, covering his legs and upper body with the other two.

He lost track of how long he was on the floor, body cold and numb, and didn't remember drying off or getting dressed, didn't remember climbing into his -- no, his and  _Jim's_  -- bed and burrowing under the white duvet. He barely noticed when Jim stumbled into the room and fell into bed next to him. John tried so hard not to shudder, not to pull away, not to be sick all over himself right here and now.

Whoever said John was a poor actor had obviously never seen him in a life-or-death situation. He knew just how to fake love and compassion and willingness to comply. He'd been doing it since he was a kid, since the day he first heard his mum and dad having a shouting match in the kitchen when they thought he was asleep. And now he'd do it for as long as he needed to in order to survive this.


End file.
